


Third Party Supervision

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Family, Fluff, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 02:37:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7995541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pissing off an AI was never a good idea.</p>
<p>But Reese didn't realize that getting it to like you was <em>just as bad.<em></em></em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Third Party Supervision

**Author's Note:**

> I'm late to the PoI fandom, but partway into Season 4 and still binging. Had to write a little something silly to express my love 
> 
> 11/2017 Update: There is now a Mandarin translation of this fic courtesy of the amazing [sandunder](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sandunder/pseuds/sandunder)! You can find the translation [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12742215) for your reading pleasure :)

Things changed after Finch’s abduction, and it had shit all to do with the abduction itself.

 

Oh, they’d captured and locked up Root. Reese and Finch had talked things out—as much as two emotionally constipated men were capable of talking—but more than trauma or crazed murderesses, Reese was concerned with the number he’d just found in his bank account.

 

“At a lack of zeros?” Finch asked, honestly surprised. Reese had never shown much interest in his paychecks before. “I’m happy to give you more, if you’d like.”

 

“It’s the _surplus_ that’s an issue, Finch.”

 

Reese flipped his phone over, displaying his bank app...

 

...as well as the nine, precise zeros following the one.

 

Despite the situation, Reese dearly wished he had a recording of Finch’s bug-eyed expression.

 

“Oh dear,” he murmured.

 

***

 

It had started out small, but with each passing day after leaving that train station, Reese had noticed more and more... oddities. Like how the spam in his email was already deleted each morning—in all six of his accounts. After walking into bars the TVs would always change to the news, and then refuse to obey any orders from the remote, no matter the brawls it started, the lack of football going to men’s heads. Lights would brighten or dim according to his needs. Thermostats did the same. Reese had gone an _hour_ without hitting a single red light before he finally slammed on the breaks, pulled over, and stuck his head out the window to glare at the nearest camera.

 

“… _What_ do you think you’re doing?”

 

The blinking red light didn’t answer. Still managed to look smug though.

 

***

 

“It took exactly two dollars from everyone with electronic banking, converted it, calculated exchange rates, made the transfers look like a glitch in the system—” Finch's hands flew over the keys. He sounded both horrified and awed. “What did you _say_ to it?”

 

Reese stared straight ahead, unmoving. Finch’s question had knocked loose a memory from the day before, namely that, in the privacy of his apartment, he’d indulged in a love of catchy pop music for the first time in months. (They made the Top 40 for a _reason_ , alright?) Problem was, Reese might have sung along a bit.

 

He might haven ended on McCoy’s “Billionaire.”

 

The “I want to be” portion of the lyrics might have been… detrimental.

 

He shifted, taking in Finch’s perfect suit, the opera shelved in the library’s corner. It would be a cold day in hell before Reese had that little factoid dragged out of him.

 

“The Machine takes thing too literally, Finch,” was all he said. Reese sighed. “Just move the funds already.”

 

***

 

“Hey,” Carter said, phone pressed to her ear. She stood and wandered off to find a more private spot in the precinct. “John?”

 

It was silent on his end, and that alone sent a shiver down her spine. It wasn’t like John to delay barking his orders. Was he injured? Incapacitated? Carter had just opened her mouth, shaky questions ready to spill, when John said,

 

“Why did you call me?”

 

She blinked. “What? _You_ called _me_.”

 

“…I didn’t.”

 

Carter could easily picture his expression—the furrowed brow, the squinted eyes. “You _did_ , John.”

 

“No. I was _about_ t—” John suddenly cut himself off. Carter, of course, couldn’t know that he had a little reminder stuffed into the back pocket of his pants. Or see, as John did now, the laptop off to his right, in a perfect position to see said note and its accompanied, ‘Call Carter.’

 

“John?”

 

Teeth grinding was the loudest sound now. “Nothing,” he said. “Sorry. Just… give me a moment. I need to go beat up some technology.”

 

Carter decided then and there that she didn’t want to know.

 

“…whatever you say, John.”

 

***

 

“Amazing. In the literal sense of surprise and wonder, I assure you. You’ve essentially hacked The Machine, Mr. Reese, though using something akin to an emotional linchpin, as opposed to any real skills in coding. I didn’t realize such a thing was still possible. I thought I’d eradicated this focus on the individual after The Machine introduced me to—well. That is… never mind. The point is that you’ve developed a personal connection with The Machine that simply _should not exist_. I can understand your creation of a back door all your own, utilizing my status as admin to trick The Machine into providing targeted assistance, but that all should have ended after my rescue. Instead, it seems positively _enthralled_ with you—”

 

“Finch.”

 

“…of course.” Finch paused briefly, torqueing in his chair to look up at Reese. “You must admit though… my Machine _does_ seem to like you.”

 

Reese smirked. “That makes two of you then.”

 

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself.”

 

***

 

“A gift for you, Lionel.”

 

“You shouldn’t have. Really.”

 

Fusco took the unconscious crook with distaste, hefting him into the back of the cruiser with one massive push. People could say what they wanted about his physique—and John would always make donut jokes in the early morning—but Fusco was all muscle under that gut, and John had appreciated that strength on more than one occasion.

 

Tossing around gang bosses like half-filled potato sacks… John nodded in approval.

 

Not when Fusco could see though.

 

“Would’ve liked that as a gift more,” he joked, gesturing to the road. John spotted the boss’ convertible. Red. Good upkeep. Exactly the kind of flashy thing Fusco would love.

 

It was true that John appreciated his assets. He just wasn’t very good at showing it.

 

So he spoke directly to his phone instead. “Well? Think you can manage that?”

 

“Who the hell you talking to, Wonder-boy?”

 

“No one.”

 

Except that a day later there were police records claiming that the car had never been found during the arrest. The registration suddenly had Fusco’s name on it. The keys arrived in Wednesday’s mail.

 

If they were going to play this game, John would at least make sure his friends benefited from it.

 

***

 

Finch had that look in his eye. The one that screamed, ‘I’ve thought of ten more possibilities than you could even conceive of, Mr. Reese. Do try harder.’ He paused in his dismantling of John’s bank account to ponder and gnaw at his lip.

 

“You know,” he said. “If there’s one thing I have faith in, it’s The Machine’s ability to cover its tracks. I honestly doubt even the most struggling of our citizens will miss two dollars, and you’ve certainly earned the bonus…”

 

John clapped a hand on Finch’s shoulder. “No.”

 

“Very well,” and there was a wry twist, almost like a smile.

 

Finch made most of the zeros disappear and they got back to work.

 

***

 

Later that day John got a text. It wasn’t any of his contacts. It wasn’t one of Finch’s aliases either. Only one option left then, and John side-eyed the nearest electronic.

 

“This had better be a new Number,” he muttered.

 

It wasn’t—they always came from pay-phones anyway—rather, John had a video to watch. He played it, right there on the street.

 

His back and Finch’s face filled the screen. It was a perfect, high-definition loop of Finch’s bug-eyed expression; catching the exact moment when he'd seen the amount in John’s bank.

 

He couldn’t contain his chuckle. What perfect blackmail material.

 

…or a bit of happiness, for those harder days.

 

John did smile then, directly into the camera. “Thanks for that,” he said and continued forward.

 

The cameras followed.


End file.
